Celebratory Grave
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. He wasn't surprised when she showed up at his doorstep, drenched, shivering. Response to hiphuggerfics LJ community prompt 1.


She'd made it to his door somehow, despite the heavy rain (how appropriate), despite the quick shots she'd taken before getting behind the wheel (how hypocritical), despite the fact that she hadn't seen him all day, usually an indication he wanted to be left alone (how lonely, so damn lonely).

But weather and danger, even reality, had never been issues where the two of them were concerned, and he had to admit he was not the least bit surprised when a drenched, shivering Calleigh showed up at his doorstep, teeth chattering slightly, and he wondered if that was the effect of the cold air or… or something else. The same reason he hadn't gone to work, the reason he had kept his phone off for the day (maybe the reason she had no choice but to show up here, arms wrapped loosely around her own torso).

She wasted no time with cheery greetings, confirming what he already knew.

"It's his birthday." Factual, straight-forward, cut-to-the-crap type of line, and it was so difficult to read her tone that he almost stumbled over himself trying to grasp a semblance of emotion from her face. But none.

"Yeah," he nodded, standing in the doorway, holding his arms against the frame like he needed the support to stand, and maybe he did. He didn't offer her an invitation, was covering the majority of the entrance with the way his body was positioned, but she didn't need one, slipped underneath his arm, and he got a soggy brush of hair along his bicep, shivered.

He closed the door and turned around to face her, and he didn't think he ever saw her looking this lost, this _tiny_, and it terrified him.

He walked over to her and helped her peel off her soaked jacket, even leaned down to take off her boots, (hit his head awkwardly against her side in the process,) because she didn't seem capable and because that's what friends do: toss the buoy, even when there's only one and they're both drowning and the goddamn defective buoy can only keep a single person afloat. Suck in a deep breath of air and hold it, hoping the floatation device will be tossed back eventually; take turns lending support, receiving it.

She stood there and watched droplets of water drip from her jacket onto his hardwood floor. "Sorry," she mumbled, drawing her socked foot over the small pools that had accumulated, and he had to help her take off her socks, too. (He liked how small her ankles were underneath his fingertips, liked the way she wiggled her toes without realizing it, felt a surge of _something_, and he swallowed.)

He led her to his living room, made her sit down on his couch even though her pants were still sopping wet, because he wasn't going to touch _that_ with a twenty-foot pole. He didn't ask her if she wanted something to drink, because he knew her response would be noncommittal, so he made her some tea, (had to dig _far_, because he hated tea and she hadn't been here in too long,) and placed the cup in front of her.

She held out her hand to pick up her drink, but it was shaking so badly that she ended up splashing tea onto his coffee table. She withdrew her arm like it had been stung and shot up. "I—"

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and made her sit back down, and she didn't complain. "It's okay, Calleigh," he soothed softly, taking a seat next to her. He picked up the cup of tea, cradled it carefully in his palms and blew lightly at the surface to cool it, then gave her a hesitant look, but her hand found his and she unsteadily guided them to her lips. He was careful not to tilt the cup too much, didn't want to burn her. She took a small sip and kept her fingers over his.

"Would've been thirty-two today," she remarked, looking straight at him for maybe the first time that night.

"I know," he replied, a little croakier than he had expected.

Another sip. "I miss him," she confessed, looking away, dropping her hands.

"Me too." And the more she talked about this, the more he did, and a brief flash of the hurt that still lingered hit him square in the chest, left him reeling.

She caught the hitch and looked at him apologetically. "I know you want to be left alone, but I—"

"Calleigh," he interrupted, "don't—" He sighed and put down her tea cup, because his own hands started to tremble a little, too. "Don't worry about that."

She sighed and tucked a few loose strands of damp hair behind her ear. "You were probably closer to him than I was," she said quietly, and he wondered if she knew how much her words were killing him, but he reminded himself of buoys and drowning and other stupid little metaphors that in truth meant nothing more than he didn't want to hurt her back. He cared; he wished he didn't so he wouldn't have to feel his own heart pulsating jaggedly in his chest, breaths of air not reaching his lungs, oxygen not fueling his brain, and he grew dizzy.

"You did know him longer," he pointed out, clutched his temples in his palms, and he knew she could tell he was bullshitting, but she didn't push it (could feel the pain emanating from his limbs, maybe, he hoped).

"Did you visit his grave?" she asked, and she was good at changing the subject (avoidance technique number four), but never good enough, never far enough.

"Yeah," he replied, nodding once into his hands.

"I couldn't," she admitted quietly, resignation and regret abundant in her voice.

He opened his mouth to provide mundane words of comfort (the best he could do), but without warning, she stood up and looked down at him.

"I made your couch wet." And it sounded like she only just realized it then, even though she'd been sitting there for what seemed like hours but was probably just minutes, and no, he didn't point that out.

He shrugged. "I need a new one, anyway," he replied, trying to smile but his body had nothing to offer today. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled gently. "Sit down."

But she wasn't having any of that, shook off his hand. "Stay here," she requested quietly, stepping over him and disappearing down his hallway. (He couldn't help but breathe in the smell of her perfume mingled with the musk of rain. He liked it.)

He heard low shuffling, clumsy footsteps, drawers opening and closing, a door clicking, a cascade of water running down skin in tiny veins, and he couldn't help but feel it in his groin. He stood up; he didn't know why (because he didn't hear the door locking) but he stood up and tiptoed toward his bathroom. He stopped in front of the door, his hand found the doorknob, and he turned it slowly, pushed and it came loose, but he quickly pulled it shut again. His heart was pounding, and he felt really dirty, pathetic for even considering this. She was going to kill him, but he felt like he was dying already, and he couldn't think of another image that he'd rather have as his last.

So he pushed the door open again (slightly, only slightly), slipped through. He could barely feel his legs, had to clutch the countertop for support. He couldn't tell if she had heard him, wished he had transparent shower curtains, wished her clothes strewn across the floor didn't make him hard (it did), wished he wasn't so _useless_ (he was).

"Calleigh," he croaked, and she definitely heard him this time, because he felt her freeze. "I brought you your tea," he added, looking down at his empty hands, and he almost slapped himself for being so ridiculously idiotic.

He waited for a response, and there was distinct movement behind the curtain. Her head peered out of one side, and her eyes flitted from his face to his hands to his groin, quickly away, and back to his hands. (He wondered if she thought he was disgusting for being so easily aroused on a dead man's birthday, but she didn't say anything, so he didn't either.)

"You didn't bring the tea," she observed, narrowing her eyes.

He decided to test out the effectiveness of avoidance technique number four for himself. "Are you staying over tonight?" he heard himself asking, and it worked, because she looked back up at his face, missing tea forgotten.

"Are you going to make me drive home in the rain?" she retorted.

"No."

"Then yes."

He nodded, listening to the water still spraying from the showerhead. "Okay."

"You're not planning on spending the night on the couch, are you?" she asked, and he twitched. She retreated back behind the curtain. "Because you don't have to."

"Okay," he repeated, trying to keep his replies vague, trying to figure out if he had enough time to jack off before she finished her shower. It was worth a shot, he thought, because he wasn't going to make it through the night otherwise.

He left the bathroom then, made sure to give the door a loud slam so she'd know he was gone, and tried to figure out just where to get on with it. Not in the bedroom; she'd be sleeping there later, for Christ's sake. He did get himself a condom, didn't want to be caught _cleaning up_, (because shit, that'd be even more embarrassing than being caught in the process,) and settled himself onto the couch. He didn't even bother to push his pants down, knew he was close, just stuck his hands in there and got it over with. It didn't take long; the release was messy and erratic, and as he sat there catching his breath, he didn't think he could drop any lower than that.

_It was his dead best friend's birthday, for crying out fucking loud_, and there was something so inherently _wrong_ with what he'd done that he felt waves of inexplicable guilt wash over him.

He sobered up quickly, however, when he heard the shower being turned off, rolled the condom off, zipped up his pants and went to dispose of his dirty little secret (wasn't really a secret though; she had seen, she would know).

And he knew it was all for naught when she appeared in front of him wearing a pair of his boxers (plaid; he didn't even know he owned those) that hung loosely to her hips, an oversized U of M tee (faded; he couldn't remember how many times he had fallen asleep in it) that hid her curves without really hiding them at all, and nothing more. Her hair was still damp; he didn't own a hairdryer.

She gave him a kind of curious look, took a few steps toward him, and he felt himself gravitating toward her. They met in the middle of the living room, like lovers from a fairy tale, like an overly cheesy scene from a romantic comedy, and he almost laughed. Almost.

She leaned in then, and he knew it was coming, knew that his heart didn't beat rapidly without reason, and knew, as her lips found his, that it would be slow and torturous.

It was.

He tasted the sweet tea that he hated (couldn't think of one thing better to bless his tongue) and remnants of bitter alcohol (reminded him that this was a bad idea but she made him forget). He barely had the energy to think, so he let her lead the way, but she was a masochist, enjoyed the torment, enjoyed running her fingertips down his sides, across his abdomen, meeting near his navel, and she found her way into his boxers and…

He stopped her. It nearly killed him, but he stopped her and pulled away from her lips (only could because he had just finished jerking off). He rested his forehead against hers, couldn't look into her eyes, knew he'd find an unbearable ache and a resounding defeat there.

"We shouldn't do that," he managed to say. "Not today." Not ever, probably, but he didn't want to think about that.

"I know," she replied, sighing deeply. She swallowed, found her hands on his hips. "Can I still stay?"

He pulled away and nodded slowly. "But I'd better sleep on the couch."

"It's wet," she noted, taking a quick look at the still-stained patch on the middle cushion. She looked back at him, and he saw a quiet desperation there.

"Calleigh…" He took a deep breath. "We can't," he said firmly.

She looked ready to protest, but sighed again and nodded. "I'm sorry I'm making this hard for you." (_In more ways than one_, he wanted to say, but how totally inappropriate, so he didn't.)

"It's alright," he replied, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. "Do you want me to walk you to my room?" he asked gently, but he didn't wait for her answer; his hand found her arm, and he led her.

He tucked her in, fought the urge; she wasn't helping, tried to kiss him, and he found himself erect as a statue again, but his self-control was better than hers, and he managed to let her down tenderly, but not before stealing another taste.

_Guilty._

That night, he lay on his couch, thinking of the friend he'd lost to death, the friend he'd lost to desire, and the birthday cake that he'd never eat.


End file.
